I almost dozed off, but Sasha’s cold nose bumping up against my cheek roused me in record time. She peered over the edge of the tub with that woeful look I’d grown to love. I blew a little puff of the airy bubbles her way and she darted from the room. A giggle worked its way up from my belly and I thanked God for life’s simple favors.
After dressing and blow-drying my hair, I headed to the Internet to read my daily devotional. Still relaxed and happy from my bath, I whispered a prayer: Lord, give me ears to hear your voice today—and courage to obey. As I signed online, I prepared myself for whatever He had for me.
You know, a funny thing happens when you ask the Lord to speak to you.
He does.
I opened to a scripture verse, Proverbs 17:27-28. It was straight from God’s mouth to my ears: “A truly wise person uses few words; a person with understanding is even-tempered. Even fools are thought to be wise when they keep silent; when they keep their mouths shut, they seem intelligent.”
Ouch.
Okay, I must admit, I had struggled a little in this area. Keeping silent wasn’t a strong suit. My ability to listen was often preempted by my need to get a word in edgewise. But I would work on that, with the Lord’s help. After this gentle reminder, I would focus on keeping my ears open and my lips closed.
Before leaving the computer, I faced the ever-growing stack of e-mails head-on. Many were forwards from Sheila, those quirky things she liked to send to put a smile on my face. Still others were thank-you notes from clients, grateful for my help with their projects. And the rest, well. . .
For a couple of days, I had refused to open any of the lessons from www.investigativeskills.com. I’d learned my own “lesson,” to be sure. But by now, the irritable things were stacking up and curiosity got the better of me, so I opened the next one in line, Lesson Four, just for a quick glance. Interestingly enough, the title grabbed me right away: A GOOD INVESTIGATOR HAS EXCELLENT LISTENING SKILLS.
Yep. The Lord appeared to be driving home His point this morning. I took a closer look at the piece, chuckling as I read, “In order to better hone in on clues, an investigator has to focus on his or her listening skills.”
A Sheila-ism popped into my head immediately. Just last week, in an attempt to conclude a story about an embarrassing moment she’d had at the grocery store, Sheila made me laugh with these words: “A closed mouth gathers no foot.”
How beautifully that little phrase matched the message du jour.
I scoured the rest of the article, amazed at the biblical principles found within. Caught up in the excitement, I almost missed the gong of the hall clock. The final peal caught my attention. Noon? Already?
Warren’s unexpected invitation to meet him for an impromptu lunch had provided a pleasant distraction and I certainly didn’t want to keep him waiting. Flying into gear, I grabbed my sweater and my purse, then headed for the door. I arrived at the bank in record time, but found him busy with a customer.
Nikki approached me with a broad smile and an apparent need for conversation. “I just wanted to thank you for praying,” she whispered. “Amber is feeling much better now.”
“Is she? That’s wonderful.”
With a glowing face, Nikki continued on. “So many good things have happened to me lately. It’s obvious someone’s been praying.” She reached over to give my hand a squeeze.
I offered up a smile of support. “Fill me in. What’s happening?”
“Well, to start with, I’m putting Amber in private school.” She hesitated a minute as her eyes misted over. “She was really struggling at the other school. It’s hard being the new kid in a small town. And besides—” Here Nikki’s expression changed. “Lots of the children were making fun of her because she didn’t have a daddy, that sort of thing.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “But I’ve been there. I had a dead-beat dad, myself, and I know how mean kids can be.” Nikki’s eyes lit as she continued on. “But I heard about the Clarksborough Christian School and went to check it out.”
I knew the school well—also knew it cost a pretty penny to send a child there. How in the world could Nikki manage such a thing on a security guard’s salary?
Slow down, Annie, and listen to what she’s saying. Don’t assume. After all, Nikki did pull in extra hours at the diner in the evenings. She must really love her daughter, to work so hard on her behalf.
I reached to give her a hug. “I’m so happy for you. And for Amber. I pray she does well.”
“Thank you. I just want her to have a better life than I had.”
“Oh?” My newly acquired listening skills kicked in as she forged ahead.
Nikki sighed. “I was so messed up as a teen. Hung out with the wrong crowd. Got into so much trouble. And I want so much more than that for Amber.”
Trouble? What kind of trouble?
She continued on, her brow knotting a bit as she spoke. “For a while there, I really didn’t think I’d make anything out of my life. I was, well—let’s just say I was ‘away’ for a while. My mom could tell you all about it.”
Away? As in, reform school? Jail?
I glanced across the room, but found Warren still engaged in conversation with a client. Nikki didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. She kept on talking, and I kept on listening.
And listening.
Turned out, today’s Bible verse had arrived just in time, as evidenced by my recurring temptation to react to Nikki’s woeful tale. Plenty of times along the way I longed to open my mouth, to interject a motherly thought or two. But I bit my tongue and just let her talk.
She went on quite awhile, covering details about her life as a single mom. The story ended on an upbeat note as she talked about being hired on at the security company Guards on Call.
“My uncle got me the job.” She chuckled. “Not that I’m really security guard material, but he pulled a few strings.”
I looked at the gun strapped to her side and swallowed hard. Yep. Something about all of this just sounded suspicious. Gun-toting security guards didn’t just “get” jobs. They trained, prepared, and underwent certification. I gave her another once-over as she kept talking. Sure, I heard what she said with her mouth, but now wondered if I should be reading between the lines. Mental note: Check out Guards on Call on the Internet.
Just then, Warren joined us. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Annie,” he whispered into my ear.
As he slipped his arm around my waist I cradled against him. “It’s fine. Nikki and I were having a nice chat.” Actually, she chatted; I listened.
Warren and I left the building moments later and I noticed a silver sports car in the parking lot. I’d seen a commercial advertising the expensive dream car some time ago, and had drooled as I watched it. “Wow. That’s beautiful.”
“Sure is.” Warren gave it a closer look. “Looks like it’s a couple of years old, but it’s top of the line, for sure. Look at that stereo system.” He pointed in the window and I peered a bit closer to absorb the luxury of it all.
“Man.” I let out a little whistle of appreciation, and then my gaze shifted to the door of the bank. “Who do you think it belongs to?” I didn’t recall seeing any unfamiliar customers inside.
Warren shrugged. “I don’t have a clue. I know Richard was talking about getting a new car a few months ago, but I can’t imagine it, with all he’s going through—”
I shook my head in disbelief. “No way.”
“Still, he has been worried about that old clunker of his making it back and forth to Philly every day.” Warren rubbed at his chin, deep in thought. “But knowing how frugal he is, I can’t imagine it.”
“Me either.”
We gave the car another admiring once-over, then, practicality setting in, Warren broke the silence with a question. “Where would you like to eat?”
I didn’t have to think very long before responding. I’d seen the sign in the front of the Clarksborough Diner on Main. The
ir special of the day happened to be my favorite: Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad. Yummy.
“The diner? Are you sure?” He chuckled. “I thought for sure you’d want something a little nicer than that.”
“Nah. I’m a diner kind of girl.”
With clear skies overhead, we made our way on foot to the familiar eatery. Once inside, we settled into the booth and the waitress, an unfamiliar young woman with a pierced lip and eyebrow handed us our menus.
“I don’t need this, honey,” I slid it back across the table. “I already know what I want.”
Her eyebrows elevated a little at the word honey and I resisted the urge to explain my Southern upbringing. Most of the folks in Clarksborough had long since grown accustomed to my love terms. I snuck a peek at her nametag: Shawna. Mental note: From this point forward, call her by her name only.
As she took our order, I tried to guess her age. Mid-twenties, most likely. Perhaps she knew Nikki. Maybe they were friends. I broached the subject with a smile.
“Shawna, do you know Nikki? She works here in the evenings, right?”
“Nikki Rogers?” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know her. But we’re not exactly on speaking terms right now.”
“Oh?”
A look of aggravation took over as she explained. “She was supposed to cover my shift one night last week and she never showed up. In fact, she hasn’t been back since.”
I felt that little “catch” in my chest that usually signifies one of those Am-I-having-a-panic-attack? episodes. “What?”
“She quit. Just took off on us. Really put Noah in a jam.” Shawna pointed to the cash register where the owner, Noah Linder, took care of a customer.
“Wow.” Then how in the world could Nikki afford the private school? What was going on here?
Warren gave me one of those Annie-think-before-you-speak looks and I turned my attentions back to the menu. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken soup to go with that salad.”
After Shawna left to wait on another customer, Warren dove into a conversation about a new security policy at the bank. I should’ve been listening. I really should have—especially in light of my desire to see this bank riddle solved. But for some reason, my ability to focus skipped right out the window. The only things I heard were the scattered thoughts bouncing around in my head. And they were tough to keep up with.
We finished up our lunch and Warren returned to his work at the bank. I went back to my work, too. I felt driven to look up Guards on Call on the Internet. Something about this whole thing just felt. . . off.
Sure enough, after a bit of tedious scrolling, I came upon a site that caused a tightening grip on my chest.
Hmm. Looked like Guards on Call was under a little investigation for lax hiring practices. I read the article with my jaw hanging in suspended disbelief. Apparently several of the guards hadn’t passed the mandatory background check, and more than a few had failed the state-mandated drug test.
My thoughts sailed back to Nikki’s expose. What was it she had said about not being security guard material? Perhaps, if I’d really been listening, I would have discerned the true meaning of her words: “He pulled a few strings.”
On the other hand. . .
Could be my listening skills had linked arms with my overactive imagination. Perhaps Nikki simply needed help getting her foot in the door and her uncle had served as a catalyst.
On the other hand. . .
Hmm. I rubbed at my neck to ease the sudden tension that rose up. What was it Sheila always said at times like these? Ah yes.
“On the other hand. . . you have different fingers.”
Before frustration could set in, I shut down the Internet and sprang from my chair. Sasha and I would go for a walk, and I’d tune my ears into something more peaceful. . . like the sound of the autumn wind whispering through the leaves on my neighbor’s old oak tree.
Chapter Eight
“Mom, are you listening?”
“Hmm?” I looked up from the china pattern I’d been staring at for the last several minutes into Brandi’s face. Her wrinkled brow let me know she had some concerns about my apparent lack of interest in her bridal registration process. Probably wouldn’t be long before she would voice them. At least, standing here in the fine china department of Philadelphia’s largest department store, she wouldn’t make too much of a scene. I hoped.
“Mom, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” She tapped her foot and for a moment I wondered if, perhaps, she had morphed into the role of mother, and I, the child.
“Sure I did.” I offered up a retort. “You love the white china with the silver trim. Round, not squared.” How’s that for not paying attention?
She cleared her throat as she lifted a beautiful square plate in front of me. The wide black trim offset its deep ivory color.
“Wow. That’s pretty.”
I didn’t think it was possible for the wrinkles between her eyes to deepen, but lo and behold if they didn’t.
“I’m getting worried about you, Mom.” At this point her voice dropped to a concerned whisper. “We all are.”
All? Who’s all? “Oh?” I tried to act natural, in the hopes that she would change the direction of the conversation. In the way of a diversion, I reached for an elegant crystal goblet and lifted it for her approval. “What do you think of this one?”
She shook her head and her lips tightened. Uh oh.
“The same thing I thought the last time you asked me. I think it’s awful. Gaudy. And Scott would never go for it. He likes the modern look. We both do.”
“Right. I knew that.” I placed the goblet down and flashed a smile that would’ve dazzled Hollywood paparazzi.
The words from yesterday’s lesson came back to me in a flash: In order to better hone in on clues, an investigator has to focus on his or her listening skills. I stared into my daughter’s troubled eyes and had to conclude. . . she was giving me plenty of clues with the wide-eyed stares. And they weren’t pleasant ones.
With new resolve, I turned my attentions to listening to her needs. This was her day. I shifted my mind—away from suspects, clues and other such distractions—and toward the beautiful daughter standing in front of me. She needed me. And I needed to get with the program. Pronto.
Together, we picked out silverware—technically flatware, since she opted not to go with real silver. She chose a simple but elegant pattern that looked terrific with her new dishes.
From there we moved on to linens. I bit my tongue as she pored over the various patterns and textures and offered up a smile when she settled on “the perfect one.” Should I tell her that satin sheets aren’t really practical over the long haul? Tell her my own honeymoon story about wearing a satin nightgown in a bed with satin sheets—how the combination had nearly proven deadly? Nah.
After that, we headed to the bath department to select floor mats and towels. Purple? She’s doing her bathroom in purple? I had to laugh. Internally, of course. As a new bride, I’d chosen brown and gold. Very trendy—back in the day.
Of course, a lot of things had changed since then. When Warren and I married, we registered for china and crystal. That was about it. These new-fangled brides registered for everything imaginable. Want to buy the lovely couple a wall clock? Simple! You’ll find one listed on page three of their registry. What about kitchen towels or pot holders? You’ll find several options on page five. Thinking about picking up a toothbrush holder for the master bath? Why stop there when you can buy a matching tissue-paper holder and soap dish? See page eleven of the registry for details.
Yep, you could register for just about everything these days. Heaven help the poor wedding guest who purchased the happy couple a set of bath towels without checking the list for the appropriate style and color. I shuddered, just thinking about it.
Ah well. Brandi and I did have fun making the selections. In fact, by the time all was said and done, I’d joined right in as if the presents would eventually be floating my way instead
of my daughter’s.
We finished out our “Saturday Shopping Spree” with a trip to a nearby pizza parlor, where we nibbled on Alfredo pizza, a favorite for both of us. I let her ramble on and on about the wedding, and enjoyed sitting in silence. . . just listening. Perhaps that’s all she really needed from me right now—just an ear to fill.
My mind wandered a bit—and I grew a bit uneasy with the direction it took. Just an ear to fill. . .
Maybe that’s all Nikki had needed from me, too. Maybe she didn’t need my suspicions or my internal ponderings. Maybe she just needed my support. After all, the poor girl had her hands full with a daughter and a full-time job. Could be, a new friend—in a new place—could walk alongside her as she figured out how to do this “mothering” thing. Hadn’t I leaned on older women when I was her age? Hadn’t I made mistakes along the way? And hadn’t the “mothers” of my day lent me their ears—and their shoulders?
Yes, I had to conclude, listening had its benefits. It drew me back to those who needed me—and those I needed.
“Mom, are you still with me?”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I looked into Brandi’s eyes. “Honey, I’m here. I promise.”
I dove into a funny story about my wedding day, and before long, she was all smiles. We relaxed and enjoyed the rest of our time together.
After arriving home, I searched for Warren to tell him about our adventures. I knew he would get a kick out of hearing about the “Purple People Eater” bathroom. And he was sure to chuckle over the square plates.
If only I could find him. I searched the house, but couldn’t seem to locate him. Next I headed to the yard. Yep, the hedges had been trimmed, but “said trimmer” was nowhere to be found. Back inside, I decided to check the office. Perhaps some last-minute business had reared its head.
To my surprise, I found the office door closed. Weird. He never closed it. I leaned in to the door for a listen, and was fairly sure I heard his voice. Sounded like he was on the phone. Ah well. I could certainly talk to him later.
The Wedding Caper Page 6
